


(Never) Be Still My Beating Heart

by ConsentFest, SliceOSunshine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Dubcon Parallels, M/M, Magical Creatures, Trauma, Vampires, Violence, further explanation of dubcon tag in A/N, some blood, this is a recovery fic disguised as a case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsentFest/pseuds/ConsentFest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SliceOSunshine/pseuds/SliceOSunshine
Summary: Post-War, Draco decides he's done being comfortable. Which turns out to be quite convenient as he's thrust headlong into a case involving a Serial Biting Vampire. Worst of all, Potter's gotten himself involved. Draco thinks he can take it, so long as his heart doesn't give out on him along the way.





	(Never) Be Still My Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my wonderful Alphas S and C who helped me work through my writer's block, encouraged me to finish this to the end, and whose insight was invaluable for the finished fic! I also want to thank the fantastic S, my great Beta and Brit-Picker, with whom I laboured over many a word. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!
> 
>  **Extended Warning for the "Slight Dubcon Parallels" Tag:** This fic draws thematic parallels between Vampire Bites and assaults. While it doesn't go too much into detail, if you're uncertain yet still want to read the fic, perhaps ask someone who knows what content you find upsetting to read it over first.
> 
> Rated M for the themes discussed; no smut.

Draco’s never really enjoyed this part of the job, which is why, he imagines, the higher ups in his department continue to give it to him.

His shoes splash a little in the wet puddles forming in the divets of the street, his Umbrella Charm faltering slightly as he fights to get the scrap of parchment out of his pocket. A giant drop slips through and smears the second _m_ in _Grimmauld_ , elongating its outer lines. He huffs as he reads it over one last time before crumpling and abandoning the parchment in a particularly deep puddle to disintegrate.

As he reaches the other side of the square, the hidden building fully materializes before his eyes. Draco gives himself credit for only hesitating two minutes before he gives the wood a resounding knock.

A frightfully ancient House Elf answers the door. Its eyes are narrowed on Draco before it seems to recognise him. “To what does Kreacher owe such wondrous surprise?” he asks with a deep bow.

“I was hoping to come in to see the... master of the house.”

“Mister Malfoy is always welcome in the most Noble and Ancient House of Black.” Kreacher steps aside, gesturing to the rest of the house in welcome.

Draco spares a moment to feel grateful for his mother’s connection to this family; undoubtedly this part of his task would have been more difficult otherwise. Once inside, Draco shucks his cloak onto the coat-rack by the door. “Where can I find—”

“Master is being upstairs. Does Mister Malfoy need anyth—”

“That’s everything.” Petty, interrupting the elf right back, but Draco knows he’ll need to get it out of his system if he’s to handle this situation properly.

Kreacher leaves him to it with an exiting bow.

The stairs creak beneath his feet as he climbs. All the rooms on the first and second floors are frustratingly empty, and each one comes with an exhausting rush of anticipatory adrenaline that burns out the moment Draco finds them unoccupied. This cycle only adds to the creeping sense of being watched from the shadows. Being on edge means behaving stupidly, and that would put both Draco and the master of the house in more danger than necessary. Draco gives himself a shake as his hand lands on the banister of the final set of stairs which leads to a trap door above. He wars with the sudden reluctance that rises with his certainty.

Steeling himself one last time, Draco slips up the steps and pushes the trap door open. With the overcast sky outside, the attic is coated in darkness. A few precious seconds pass while his eyes adjust; he’d cast _Lumos_ , but one only makes that mistake once in this business.

He catches the slightest of movements ahead. “Hello?”

The movement stops.

“Can I come in?” Draco asks, feeling ridiculous. As if their entire relationship in the past has ever consisted of asking _anything_ first.

“Already here, are you?” The voice is low, rough, and dangerous in all the ways that Potter’s voice normally isn’t.

Taking that as all the invitation he’ll get, Draco boldly climbs fully into the attic, his head nearly brushing the ceiling when he stands at his full height.

For a while, neither of them move, sizing one another up. Draco imagines Potter to be having a better time of it than he is. He can probably hear the pounding of Draco's heart from across the room.

“Where’d you get this address from?” Potter could probably see Draco’s flinch at the sudden sound of his voice too. “It’s under Fidelius.”

“Weasley.” He needs to regain control of the situation. Somehow.

“And that black eye?”

In spite of himself, Draco can feel his lips twitch a little. The more things change... “Also, Weasley.”

“That second one, I can believe. However, the first—”

Draco cocks his head and fixes his gaze on a point in the dark, his best guess for where Potter’s eyes would be. “Well, _Potty_ , I suppose anyone would get desperate enough after having their friend cut off all contact for months on end, refusing to see them when they come calling, and _especially_ after—”

“That still doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here.” Potter sounds farther away than before, as if he’s retreating more to his side of the attic. He backs up far enough that a sliver of light coming from a crack in the roof glances briefly across his face.

Draco sees a flash of green as the light reflects off Potter’s glasses. Not red. He feels himself exhale.

The confidence he’s been lacking since first appearing in the square outside Grimmauld Place returns to him then.

“Why, Potter?” he echos, taking a bold step forward. “I’m here on official business.”

Potter doesn’t seem to take the hint; that, or he really doesn’t know.

“Of course, I don’t really expect you to have kept up with my activities since leaving Hogwarts...” His right hand subconsciously adjusts his left cuff. “I work for a Ministry sub-division that handles attacks from Magical Creatures.”

Potter somehow manages to draw further in on himself. “I-I didn’t ask—Nobody asked for—” He sounds hoarse and a bit small, yet defiant, and Draco wonders how he ever thought Potter didn’t quite sound like himself.

“Again, those pesky friends you’ve been ignoring finally realised they might not be enough to handle this... situation on their own.”

“Who...?”

“I believe it was Granger that filed the paperwork, but I’m not sure. I wasn’t in the office when it happened. And,” Draco says with an involuntary twitch of his jaw, “before you get your knickers in a twist, they didn’t exactly _request_ me. Hence Weasley’s less than exuberant reaction to my showing up on their doorstep.”

It gets a chuckle out of Potter—a light thing whispered out on a breath, but Draco still feels a fierce thrill at having made him laugh. “So, what, Malfoy? You saw my name on the paperwork and jumped at the opportunity to see me like this? See what’s become of _Saint Potter_?”

“As difficult as it might be for you to believe, I didn’t choose to take this case, either.”

“Yeah, I find that nearly impossible to believe. You’ve always jumped at the chance to see me miserable. Hell, you’re like a bloodhound—”

Draco’s eyes have adjusted enough to the minimal lighting that he sees Potter bite down hard on his bottom lip, the smallest pair of fangs protruding. Before the War, Draco may have been enough of a bastard to take that kind of opening, a cheap shot right at Potter’s emotional jugular. He likes to think himself a different man than he was, so he pretends to have not noticed Potter’s slip of the tongue.

“Actually, it’s probably more about my misery than yours.” Draco feels a grimace flit across his face before he can suppress it. “My supervisors are less than fond of me. They’re aware of our history enough that I would probably be the best choice for you, but you’d be the worst choice for me—out of the other available cases, that is.”

“I don’t understand that logic at all.”

Draco sighs. “You don’t have to. It just is what it is.”

Potter juts his chin out. “And if I don’t accept that?”

Ignoring the challenge entirely, Draco holds out the stack of paperwork he’s brought with him. “I’m here to track down the vampire that bit you.”

“Why? It happened; it’s over. There’s no real undoing it or anything.”

“Allow me to rephrase: I need your help tracking this vampire down before they bite anyone _else_.”

Potter seems to still at that, and Draco can feel that familiar, piercing green gaze on him even if he can’t really see it. It’s powerful enough that gooseflesh rises up his arms and shivers run down his back, and Draco’s very nearly sent back in time to stone walls and floating candles and Potter’s wand at his throat.

He blinks, and Potter’s wand really _is_ at his throat. The fact that the rest of him remains far away from Draco hardly dulls the spike of adrenaline that shoots through his veins. Suddenly sharply aware of his surroundings, Draco also realises that in his moment of reminiscing, he’d taken another step toward Potter. Draco mentally swears at himself.

“Sorry,” Draco says, taking a step back. In the dim light of the attic, he watches the wand stay trained on him for the next long stretch of silence before finally lowering.

“My help,” Potter says. “You want _my_ help?”

“It’s more ‘require’ than ‘want,’ but sure.”

“Oh, so I’m being _ordered_ by the Ministry to—”

“ _Required_ on _my_ end, Potter. Your answer falls into the purview of _want_.” Never did Draco anticipate this conversation veering into a semantics lesson with Potter. “Since you never really reported the incident yourself, we don’t even know if your... experience reflects any other incidents we have on file—whether this is a new vampiric perpetrator or any of the other serial biter cases we’ve been working on. For that, we would _need_ your cooperation with this case. But we can’t _make_ you cooperate. So, I’ll ask you again. Would you be willing to help us track down the vampire that bit you?”

“And your department _really_ thought _you’d_ be the best person to get me to say _yes_?”

“You can have some time to think it over the next few days. I won’t rush you on it.” Draco re-brandishes the paperwork he brought with him (consent forms, advice pamphlets, and so on) and makes a show of placing it on the floor before retreating through the attic trapdoor.

On the landing, he nearly jumps out of his skin as he spots Kreacher staring up at him, gnarled hands curled round the stair railing to the attic.

“Malfoy did not upset Master Harry, did he?” If the elf had not dropped the honorific, Draco might have been able to dismiss the accusatory light in Kreacher’s eyes as a trick of his paranoia. But of course, just because he’d been allowed easy entry to the home due to ancestral connections did not mean that Potter’s House Elf would not be overprotective. After all, Potter had just been through quite the ordeal.

“I’d like to hope not, but you can go check—”

The elf snaps his fingers, and Draco finds himself in the outside square, alone but for the rain and his thoughts.

 

***

Three days later, a tawny owl drops a small missive on his desk at the Ministry.

 _Okay_ , it reads. On the back is a date and time. Draco marks his calendar.

 

***

When Draco finds himself on a couch in Potter’s sitting room, he still hardly believes his luck. He had been certain when he’d been summarily dismissed last time that he would never see the inside of this house again except as a painted head on a tapestry.

Although, with how long he’s been waiting for the host to show, he may just only never see Potter again.

He’s turning his teacup full of cold tea around its saucer for the fiftieth time when Potter’s shadow in the doorway cuts out the light from the hall. Before Draco can fully take him in, Potter waves his wand and snuffs out most of the candles in the room, only leaving a few lit.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he slinks his way to the armchair opposite Draco.

“I didn’t know your light sensitivity was so acute.”

“It’s not,” Potter says. “I meant sorry that I kept you waiting.”

“Ah, yes, well... Nothing that a good Warming Charm can’t solve.” Draco’s eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting, and he realises that Potter’s made the room brighter than the attic—though that isn’t all that high a standard. As the moments tick by, he may actually get a better feel for Potter’s condition than he could during their last encounter. For right now, though, he catches Potter pursing his lips like he’s swallowed a lemon before the expression smooths out.

“I meant about having you wait several days before my answer. It would’ve been sent sooner, but Kreacher was reluctant to fetch me an owl. You made a poor impression, apparently.”

“Mmm,” Draco says as he sips his thrice-reheated tea. “Sounds about right. Wait, sooner?”

“Yes.” Now Potter’s doing that distinctly Potter-thing of running his hand through his ragged Potter-hair. “I’d made my decision right after you left, actually.”

Draco almost chokes on his tea when Potter’s eyes flick to his, looking at him looking. The sneer comes naturally, a defense to Draco’s sudden flash of embarrassment. “Oh, really? Hard to believe that when you let your elf Disapparate me out of the house. I hadn’t even collected my cloak.”

“Er... He sort of did that on his own. And you can get your cloak before you leave this time. It’s still on the rack.”

It is. Draco saw it when he came in.

Potter sighs. “It was sort of made after you had—apologised to me.” He looks down into his lap. “If anything, you’d probably try to not be a complete pr— _you_ , really. And, it would be... irresponsible? Of me as an Auror in-training to just, let that—that monster go after someone else.”

As awkwardly phrased as that was, Draco gets it, and he hums his understanding instead of using words that could become twisted in his mouth. And even though he said just as much to Potter in their last meeting, it wouldn’t really be his fault should the vampire decide to go after another victim. Placing his saucer down, he pulls out his notepad and self-inking quill. “All right, Potter. Tell me what happened.”

Potter turns his head to the side to stare at a point on the wall to the left, his shoulders hunching. “It’s not really something I try remembering all that much.”

“Then tell me as much as you can. Anything that could help.”

“We were out on a date. A night Quidditch match. It’d been fun. Invited my date home—not here, a flat, my flat—for drinks. Guess they had another drink in mind.” Potter lets out a humorless chuckle.

Draco pauses his quill scratching to squint up at Potter. “The vampire was someone you knew?”

Potter’s one shoulder does a weird spasm that’s probably supposed to be a shrug. “I thought I did. I mean, well...” His head falls into his hands. “I didn’t even know the person was a _vampire!_ I’m an Auror in-training, and I couldn’t even tell my date was a vampire! Not by any of the other interactions we had. Nothing!”

“That’s... odd.” Vampires tend to be quite distinct from what Draco knows of them from his schooling and work in his current department. Skin with the grey tinge of death, eyes bloodshot red—no reflection, no heartbeat. The smell of blood clinging like cologne. “Surely there were some kind of signs—”

“That’s just it!” Potter bursts up from his chair and paces back and forth. “There were no signs! At least not any of the usual ones! We’d see each other regularly out in daylight; there was no vampiric aura or distinct vampiric traits—not even during our… our—date. No-not—”

“Not until you were bitten.”

“...Yes.” Potter seems to realise the ferocity in his movements, glances over at Draco with a look foreign on his face, and sits gently back down in his seat. “I couldn’t stay in my flat after that. I don’t know if my _date_ had meant to turn me or just off me. I—there was a lot of blood everywhere. So, I came here.”

“You say you saw the vampire in daylight?”

“Yes. And not flinching away from the sun or anything. Like they—belonged out there.” Potter’s looking at his hands in his lap now, the fingernails longer than Draco remembers them being—before. “I’ve mostly been using Kreacher. To run errands, fetch news, communicate with other people. To tell my friends—or, well, Ron and Hermione. I didn’t want to see them, any of them, after— _after_. I don’t think I could take—” He sighs, then straightens. “I also had Kreacher try to find the—the v-vampire. At the places I used to see ‘em. The old workplace. A bar…different bars most of the time. Things like that. But it’s like they vanished, or never even existed.”

“Do you think it was some form of Polyjuice, maybe?”

“I don’t know. Does Polyjuice even work on vampires?”

Draco shrugs. He’s never come across it happening before. Vampires tend to use their hypnotic allure to keep their victims pliant. Would Polyjuice affect that?

“Assuming the Polyjuice theory, since Elf magic should be able to track down just about anyone and anything, I’ll forgo asking much about what the vampire looked like when they were with you since looks can be changed in the magical world. And enough time has passed that they could have cycled through several other appearances." He tries not to dwell on the lost time between now and when Potter was bitten nearly six months ago. There have been cases with much longer delays of years and even decades before victims came to Draco's department. "Rather, I think we’ll focus on the description of behavior.”

Potter nods his assent.

Another thought suddenly occurs to Draco. “Say, Potter. How’ve you managed that blood loss problem?”

“I haven’t bitten anyone,” Potter says quickly, voice losing its smooth quality for a moment.

Draco knows. Otherwise, Potter’s eyes would be that sharp red warning of death.

“Kreacher has been buying me... Blood Replenishing Potion.”

He jots that down. Then he rolls his quill back and forth between his forefinger and thumb, almost hating himself for what he has to ask next. “What can you... tell me about, well, about the attack itself?” 

Shadows shift on Potter’s face as he winces, a small fang flashing in the candlelight, and Draco can feel his face reflecting the expression back. “Invited them into my flat. Turned my back to get the drinks. Was pinned to a wall. Stomach to wall; hands on my hands, fangs—” Potter’s hand presses to the left side of his neck as though stemming the flow from an open wound.

“Okay,” Draco says, mouth dry. “And did—was there any sort of hypnosis, allure... anything?”

Potter shakes his head. “None that I recall.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t remember any recent, open cases with a vampire not using hypnosis. Though, it’s not unheard of. He has dealt with his handful of sick fucks that forego that element altogether.

The fingers Potter has pressed against his neck curl, tugging at the skin there. His head’s angled in such a way that the candlelight reflects a glare off his glasses, shielding the expression in his eyes from Draco. “I think... I remember. They whispered—they wanted me to call for help. Before I was bitten.”

Draco’s stomach rolls over, and he swallows back the bile. Merlin, does he hate vampires like this. “And did you?” He asks, because apparently his mouth had to sick up something.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Draco says. “Okay.”

“Is that—” Potter moves his head to squint a bit at Draco. “Is that enough? Information, I mean. It all seemed to come out vague—”

“It should be. Enough that is. You picked out distinct enough details that are unique enough for us to identify vampires or victims that match the profile.” Draco knows he should say something else, before he leaves, before he ends this. Before he heads home and gets sloshed enough to fall into his own oblivion for awhile. “Thanks, Potter. For the cooperation. We’ll—we’ll get ‘em.”

Draco’s up and almost out of the front door, cloak taken from the hall rack when Potter’s voice calls out to him.

“Wait.” He’s standing in the shadow of the sitting room doorway; the hall light cuts across the bottom half of his black robes. “Malfoy.” His right hand, partially raised as though to reach for Draco, closes on air and falls at his side. From the glimpse of skin given, Draco noticed its colouring was off, a grey-tinge to it. “Can—If you hear anything? _Anything_. Related to this—to _them_. Tell me? Let... let me come?”

Not the set of circumstances in which Draco wanted to hear that last sentence from Potter, Draco thinks in a distant way. Still, his mouth says, “Sure,” before he really thinks of the consequences. But by the time his mind actually catches up, it’s already been said, and Potter seems to relax against the door jam. And if it means he can leave Potter somewhat content after this rough meeting, then he really couldn’t give much of a damn about rules and consequences.

 

***

Once Draco’s department knows what to look for, it’s not too long before they locate several victims that match well enough to the description Potter gave; being much more recent attacks, a greater likelihood exists that the vampire hasn’t shifted in appearance—which means better chances of tracking the creature down. And true to his own word, Draco contacts Potter about it.

They owl a bit back and forth before agreeing to meet at Grimmauld the day Draco goes to visit the first victim on the list.

It’s two weeks since Draco saw Potter last, and despite the trouble he could get in should his department find out—the fact that Potter’s practically an Auror is hardly a good enough excuse—he can’t help but feel thrilled to be seeing Potter again.

Draco stands on the stoop of Grimmauld. While he knows Potter would probably invite him inside, part of him figures they’d get caught up in conversation or get offered tea and cake by Potter’s elf. It’s truly best to not get held up. One loses both time and nerve that way.

Still, after fifteen minutes pass over the time Potter said to meet him, Draco knocks on the wood and calls out, “You ready, or what, Potter? Should I just g—”

The door swings open, and he’s face to face with Potter. Or as face to face as one can be when the other person is wearing six different layers and a scarf wrapped around their head.

Draco blinks, and Potter has retreated several paces back into the house. “Well, if you’re done prettying yourself up...”

Potter’s reply is muffled by the scarf. He takes a step forward and trips slightly over a troll leg in the hall.

Even muffled, Draco can recognise a swear when he hears one.

While Potter has his glasses placed over where his eyes must be, the scarf is surely too thick for him to see anything properly.

With a put-upon sigh, Draco takes out his wand and transfigures a nearby broken cobblestone into a pair of shades. “Here, Potter. If you don’t want to be recognised being out and about with me so badly, you might want to try these. Bumble and stumble about like that in Diagon Alley, and folks are sure to know it’s you.”

A gloved hand shifts the scarf around until Potter has a mouth-hole. “Diagon?”

“Yes. The ones on the list are all located in, or off of, Diagon Alley.” He proffers the shaded glasses out to Potter.

Delicately, Potter grasps the frame, arm stretched out and body far from Draco. His movements are calculated and deliberate, and their fingers do not brush. “Crowded, Diagon Alley.”

“Nervous, Potter?”

Potter ducks his head, moving the scarf for better eye-slits, and swaps the pairs of glasses, shoving his usual pair in his robe pocket. “Maybe.”

Not the answer Draco had been hoping for. “Don’t worry. You may be trussed up like an Egyptian mummy, but I still turn heads in my own way out in public.”

 

***

They’ve Apparated separately to Diagon, and it’s thankfully less crowded than normal due to the cold.

Draco starts walking before he realises Potter isn’t beside him. Turning around he spots him standing in the shade of a shop overhang. He clucks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, waves his wand, and casts an umbrella charm. Another whispered spell and the translucent shield sprouting from his wand tip becomes opaque.

He walks over to Potter who’s fumbling with his own wand. “Here.” Draco holds out the handle of his wand to Potter, his fingers near the tip. “The spells should hold on their own for at least a little while.”

“I should be able to cast my own.”

“Ideally, yes. But most people’s magic goes a bit...off after—”

“And that’s _your_ wand.”

“Come now, Potter. We both know this won’t be the first time you’ve held my wand.” The second the words leave his mouth, Draco knows he should correct them. Say, _won’t be the first time you’ve_ used _my wand_. But saying it now would be to admit he was aware of the innuendo, and therefore would admit to Potter on some level where his thoughts slide sometimes.

Potter still stares wordlessly at him anyway, and Draco wonders if Potter’s become skilled at Legilimency in recent years.

Boldly, Draco maintains what he suspects is eye contact. He really did do a good job on those shades.

When Potter reaches out and grasps Draco’s wand, the lack of contact between their hands is much more noticeable, less excusable than with the sunglasses.

Draco files that information away and tries not to analyse it too hard. At least, not right now—not when they have to spend the next several hours together.

Spinning on his heel, Draco starts to trek down Diagon Alley, hoping Potter excused the colour spots in Draco’s cheeks as coming from the cold.

Despite the parasol and his trussed-up state, Potter still does not walk beside Draco. He has to keep turning his head several times to check that Boy Wonder is still there. Each time, Draco spots him, not directly behind him, but several paces behind and to the side. He decides not to ask. If Potter wants to follow him in the oddest way possible, who is Draco to call deliberate attention to it in the middle of a public street?

The first victim rooms in a flat above Eeylops Owl Emporium.

When they enter the dim light of the shop, Draco is accosted almost immediately by the owner. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy! What a pleasure to see you!” He reaches for Draco’s right hand and grasps it in both of his. “What a pleasure! Tell me, what can I do for you?”

Potter shuffles beside Draco, unnoticed. Though, should Potter remove his wrappings, the shop owner would be sure to take notice then. Yet, Potter makes no moves to do so, even in the perfect lighting for his current condition. All he does is cancel the spells creating the parasol effect on Draco’s wand before clearing his throat and passing it back to Draco who pockets it.

It’s starting to crowd a bit around them as other customers become curious over the commotion. Some even call out their own greetings to Draco. The smile Draco plasters on his face feels more like a grimace the longer they stand there. But if his high society breeding is good for anything, it’s that it ingrained in Draco an ability to bullshit politeness.

“Yes, Mr. Eeylops. My partner and I are here on official business for the Ministry.”

“Oh, what could the Ministry want with my quaint old shop?” Mr. Eeylops blinks up at Draco with eyes magnified twenty times their regular size by his glasses.

“Not with your shop, my good man. Rather with a tenant of yours.” Draco flashes the warrant he has, whipping it out from within his pocket. “If you’d be so kind as to show us the way.”

As Mr. Eeylops leads them through the shop, some of the patrons reach out to touch Draco on the shoulder with whispered “Hello”s and “Good to see you, Mr. Malfoy”s. With each one, Draco manages a curt nod but doesn’t stop for conversation. He can feel Potter’s curious gaze burning into his back, and, just like in Sixth Year, Draco can’t even enjoy it.

There are three flats above the shop—two for tenants and one for the owner. Mr. Eeylops leaves them off at the one on the far end, slipping in more bright-eyed pleasantries before departing.

Draco raises his hand to knock, then pauses. “Aren’t you going to take those off? You might scare her off, dressed like that.”

Potter shakes his head when Draco twists his neck to look at him. “Probably less scary like this, honestly.”

Of course Potter would be difficult. Draco'd brought this on himself when he said yes to Potter, so here he is, living with the consequences. Shrugging, Draco sighs and turns back to the door. He knocks thrice sharply on the wood and calls out, “Hullo, Ms. Adams. I’m Detective Malfoy from the Ministry’s Department on Creature Incidents. You reported to us that you had an encounter with a vampire. My partner and I are here to discuss that with you.”

Shuffling noises can be heard on the other side, so Draco steps back a bit from the door, making sure he’s in perfect viewing range for the peep hole. Silence descends for several minutes, and Draco’s eyes flash to Potter and then to the door and back again.

When Potter’s turned head indicates that he’s looking at Draco, Draco motions at him to come closer. After a few seconds pass where Potter doesn’t, Draco sighs and shifts over several steps, leaving Potter enough room for him to step into the view of the peephole. Potter does so, gloved hands clasped out in front of him.

Several locks spring from their tumblers, and the door opens a crack. A brown eye stares out at the two of them, about the height of Draco’s sternum. Then the door shuts again, and the scurrying of feet can be heard before a melodic voice calls out, “Door’s unlocked. Come in.”

Draco steps through first, and his eyes dart around the room, trying to locate their hostess. He finally finds her sitting on the far end of her couch at the flat’s center, knees drawn up to her chest and long hair obscuring her face.

“Have a seat, if you want,” she says.

Since Potter appears to be following his lead in all this, Draco grabs the closest rocking chair. Potter then takes the plush armchair by the window; except, rather than sitting down, he leans against the armrest, hands still linked in front.

Draco sits straight in his chair, plants his feet to prevent any rocking, and turns his full attention to Ms. Adams. “Good afternoon, Ms. Adams. Thank you for coming to our department on this matter and for agreeing to meet in person, though I wish our meeting could have been for a happier occasion.” He gives her a small, apologetic smile. “If you would, ma’am, please expand more on the incident. While the details you gave the Ministry were helpful, if we hope to catch the vampire, we’ll need as much detail as you’re willing to provide.”

Her head shifts as she looks at Draco, and he catches a glimpse of more of her face. Her brown eyes have sunken slightly in their sockets. The skin looks drawn and almost translucent, the only splash of colour being the unnatural redness of her lips. A moment later, Draco realises why as he watches one of her small fangs pierce her bottom lip, and blood spreads across it.

Ms. Adams suddenly sucks her lips into her mouth, having noticed Draco watching.

“You look well,” Draco says. And he means it, for all that he never met her prior for a comparison, since he’s seen vampire victims come out the other end of an attack looking much worse.

“Don’t patronize me. I know I look like shit.”

“I meant, considering the circumstances of our visit.” He’s normally better at this, and he knows that she deserves better from him than this. “It’s just that, I know that all of this is a lot to handle. We’re here to help. You can tell us how you’ve been holding up, as well. Our department offers resources beyond promised justice.” Draco takes out the leaflets he carries with him and holds them out to Ms. Adams.

She waves them away. “I don’t want your bleeding help programs. I want you to catch that monster!”

“All right,” Draco says, calmly picking up a leaflet that dropped to the floor. “Then could you elaborate on the incident? The statement that you gave us indicated you were attacked after dark—”

“When else would a vampire attack?”

“—and that you were bitten with your back to the vampire.”

Her jaw shifts back and forth as her eyes bore into Draco’s.

“How about we start with a setting?”

“I was at m’usual pub. Not the Leaky but a Muggle one—the Red Lion. They had this new bartender—quite the lovely one. I tried chatting ‘em up almost every time I went. And one day, the bartender... not exactly chatted me up right back, but offered to help me out of the bar when some of the other drunkards started getting handsy. We were out the back entrance and—” Ms. Adams’ hands tighten against the fabric of her robes.

“And that’s when you were bitten?” Draco asks gently.

“I—I’m not even certain it was the bartender. We were outside, and suddenly I was flat against the wall, my hands pinned... The creature could’ve swooped in for all I know, but the bartender wasn’t in the alley when the thing left, so I don’t know who else...”

“That’s all right. We’ll add the bartender to our suspect list just in case.”

She turns her head away and presses her hands against her eyes. “I just wanted to have a good time. Th-that’s all. And then that—that _monster_ —and _now_ look at me! My hands, my teeth, my hair—Merlin only knows what my _face_ looks like. Not that I’d know! I can’t—my reflection—”

Draco’s forte has always been making people cry, not getting them to stop. So, it’s a relief when Potter finally moves from his perch against the armchair to crouch down before Ms. Adams.

“Hey.” His voice sounds soft and strained to Draco’s ears. “Hey.” His hands hover in front of her, not reaching out to touch.

She shakes her head. “I’m tired of this! Of all this! I want everything to go back to the way it was—the way _I_ was! I want to go out without feeling like people are staring at me, or like there are eyes burning holes into my back. I’m tired of thinking that—that _thing_ will come back! Thinking I see it every time I so much as _glance_ in a mirror and not myself—never myself—”

“I know—” Potter tries to say.

“No. You don’t know! None of you _know_. How can—”

“I _know_.”

Ms. Adams’ breakdown cuts off short as she looks up from her hands at Potter. Potter, who has removed the scarf wrapping from his head and is replacing the shades with his regular glasses.

“I know,” he repeats as he stares up into her wide eyes. “I know how hard it is to look in a mirror and see nothing.”

This is Draco’s first time getting a real good look at Potter since the incident. Despite all his experience with cases such as this, Draco can’t help the surprised lurch that tugs at his stomach. Realistically, Draco expected the gauntness in Potter’s face, the greyed tinge of his skin, and the fangs he’d seen flashes of before. But to fully see the markings of a vampire attack on someone he _knows_ , someone he grew up with, someone he’s spent hours memorizing every feature of—it all feels real in a way it hasn’t before. And Draco, coward that he’s always been, wants to _l_ _eave_.

But he stays. He stays as Potter’s still-gloved hands hover about Ms. Adams as he shows her a part of himself he’s hidden from Draco. He stays as Potter whispers words to her that Draco’s ears are ringing too loud to hear. And he stays as Potter quietly excuses himself, swaying a bit on his feet as he stands from his crouch and walks into another section of the flat. Distantly, Draco gathers that he went to the loo.

Shaking himself from his stupor, Draco takes the opportunity to create a sketch of the suspected bartender. He uses his Ministry-allocated Swift Sketch Quill to draft as accurate an image as possible to the one Ms. Adams describes.

By the time Potter returns from the loo, Draco’s finished up with the witness and is waiting by the front door. Potter meets him there, redressed in his head coverings. He glances back toward Ms. Adams, whose legs are now stretched the length of the couch rather than curled against her chest.

“Nice meeting you.” Potter gives a half-wave that he aborts partway through. Then he turns back to Draco. “All set, then?”

Not quite trusting himself to speak yet, Draco just nods before walking out of the flat.

On their way to the next victim on the list, Potter continues to follow him in that same manner he’d used before—behind Draco but not out of Draco’s line of sight. He keeps watch over Potter out of the corner of his eye while his mind whirls, unlocking the box of thoughts he’s shoved down deep. With what he’s observed today and over their last few interactions, Draco can tell something's clearly eating at Potter, only Draco can't discern if that something has to do with _him_  or with Potter's condition. By the time they arrive, Draco still isn’t any closer to fitting the pieces together.

Mr. Dawkins lives in a rented flat above Flourish and Blotts, a place accessible without having to go through the shop. The windows on the door and the side of the building remain covered with curtains that do not stir as Draco’s fist meets the wood.

“Department of Creature Incidents. We’re here to collect your statements.” Draco waits an interval of three minutes before knocking again. “Please, open up.”

“Maybe they’re not in,” Potter says from his perch several steps down.

“Oh, yes, a vampire victim would be out and about during—” Draco bites his tongue. He doesn’t need to turn around or for Potter to uncover himself in order to _feel_ the condescending look Potter’s giving him. No, that’s what seven plus years of shared history is for. “Of course he’d be in. Our department sent an owl out to everyone letting them know we’d stop by today.”

“Well, maybe he’s busy.” Potter shrugs, his robes rustling against the railing as he does so. “We could come back later so we don’t keep anyone else waiting.”

Draco knocks one last time and glares at the door when it refuses to magically open for him before he spins around and pushes past Potter in a huff.

The third and final victim on their sheet lives in a house just outside of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. They have to cross through Knockturn in order to reach it, and, for the first time, Potter draws closer to Draco during their walk. Whether it’s from protectiveness over Draco, or a desire to feel protected by Draco, Draco’s pounding heart hardly cares. He can only hope Potter’s too distracted by the shifty characters passing them in the Alley to take note over what Draco’s heart is doing.

For their part, Potter and Draco get their share of wary looks—Draco for his history with Dark Arts and Potter for his unsettling attire. At least the two of them are less likely of getting jumped than Potter seems to fear.

Potter walks close enough now that Draco could probably talk to him. If he wanted. About anything. But what could Draco say that wouldn’t bring bad blood to the surface? _Hey, Potter, nice handling of that scene with the first victim back there_. Potter would probably take it as some veiled insult, especially having to leave the room while Draco finished up. _Hey, Potter, for once, we might be the scariest blokes in Knockturn_. That could be read as an underhanded slight at Potter’s current condition, and they’ve been getting on _decently_ so far. _Hey, Potter, remember when I’d insult you to the point you’d fist your hands in the front of my robes, shove me against a corridor wall, and our faces would be centimeters apart a few seconds before your fist would—_

“Hey, Malfoy.”

Draco does _not_ jolt at hearing Potter’s voice. “Yes, Po—yes?”

They may have turned off of Knockturn now, but it still wouldn’t do good to have any of that crowd overhearing the fact it’s Potter who’s with Draco, wearing fifty-odd layers for an undisclosed reason.

“Why do you work in a job you hate?”

Scratch talking to Potter; Draco’s so not ready for this conversation. Still, this is the first thing Potter’s technically said to him that’s not directly about the case. “I don’t hate it.”

“It’s—Well, it seems to be... difficult for you—at points.”

Draco stomps down the childish part of him that wants to snap back. “Just because something presents a... challenge doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“I just mean... there are probably other jobs for you out there, ones where you’re not—” Potter gestures at Draco’s whole self— “uncomfortable a good portion of the time.”

“Maybe it’s good for someone like me to feel uncomfortable sometimes.”

“What does that mean?”

Draco sighs, the air pushing through his teeth in a hiss, and turns fully to face Potter. “Do you really think I couldn’t have a job where my employer doesn’t hold resentment for my past? Because they’re a Knut a dozen. You saw those witches and wizards back in the Owl Emporium; all of them were practically falling over themselves to flatter me, touch me, assure me that _they_ ’ve forgiven me for my transgressions. Yet for all they know, I haven’t changed a bit! Merlin, people are more sycophantic than they were before the whole Dark Lord business—trying to pull me back into society’s good graces before I’ve even _done_ anything yet.”

He lowers his voice when he realises he’s started shouting and drops his hand when he notices it pointing accusingly at Potter. “Anything to _deserve_ it yet.” Draco sucks in a breath and tries not to think how much easier it is to say this to someone he can’t look in the eye. “I’ve always reacted negatively to what makes me uncomfortable—other magical beings, Muggle-borns, _you_ —and that made me into someone—someone that eventually made _me_ uncomfortable in the worst way imaginable. So... so now with this, I’m making myself uncomfortable in ways I can actually _grow_.”

“Oh,” Potter breathes out and takes a step toward Draco.

And Draco’s suddenly aware of the small space they’re in—the side alley’s so narrow—and while Potter is still too far away to touch Draco, he’s closer than he’s ever been since being bitten. Draco’s head starts swimming when he feels the intensity of Potter’s attention, all zeroed in on Draco, and their Hogwarts days seem just a fistful of robe away—except Draco hasn’t needed to say anything horrible this time around.

But then Potter steps back with a muffled apology, and the spell is broken.

Draco’s stuttering breath is loud to his ears, and he tries not to think how loud it likely is to Potter. “S’fine,” he chokes out. Then he leads Potter the rest of the way to the last victim’s house, painfully aware of his own jerking steps.

 

***

The door opens on the third knock, revealing a portly man around Ms. Adams’ height. Sweat decorates his face and mats his black hair to his forehead. “Oh. You’re here.” He blinks at Draco and Potter as though doubting his eyesight. “Come inside, then.”

They follow him in as he walks over to his kitchen where steam puffs out from under several pot lids.

“Sorry. You caught me preparing my dinner. I’d turn it off, but then the noodles will become too saturated.” He gestures at the kitchen table chairs. “Sit. Sit. I’ll put some tea on for you.”

“Thanks,” Draco says as Mr. Park sets the kettle on the stove-top. He slides into one of the chairs, peripherally watching Potter pick one that’s two away from him.

“What’s in the other pot?” Potter’s voice comes out surprisingly unmuffled.

Both Draco and Mr. Park turn to Potter who has already removed his head wrappings.

Mr. Park latches onto the stove-top and nearly burns his hand, the other one clutching at his heart. “Oh! _Oh_. Sorry. You—I didn’t expect—” He clears his throat into his fist. “Ah, um. I’m preparing some Kimchi for Wednesday, so that's the base for the paste boiling there—the other ingredients are prepared on the counter. My daughter will be coming home for the holiday, and I thought surprising her with her favourite dish would be, well, um. Good. A good fatherly thing to do. Yes.”

“Sounds nice,” Potter says around a strained smile.

Mr. Park nods and wrings his hands until the kettle sounds off, making him jump again. As he serves them all tea, Mr. Park regains control of himself—so much so, that his hands don’t shake when he picks his teacup up from its saucer. He chose the seat directly across from Potter, leaving Draco off to his left across the table.

“All right, Mr. Park,” Draco says. “Could you elaborate more on your attack?”

“Ah.” He puts his teacup down and stares into it for a moment before looking up at Draco. “I’m afraid I was mistaken.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was mistaken. Or at least exaggerated it a little.” He looks down again while his right hand rubs at the back of his neck. “The vampire—it only really grazed me. So it’s not—that’s not really an _attack_ , now is it?”

Draco just watches him, not writing anything down.

“Now, your friend—coworker—partner—whatever, here, _he’s_ suffered a vampire attack.” He gestures at Potter, a sad smile crossing his features. “A truly frightening ordeal, that must have been. How could I even compare—begin to _compare_ —”

Potter winces, showing off a fang. “Sorry, Mr. Park. I hadn’t—I didn’t come along to make you feel like your experience should somehow be compared to mine. Not like that. And I—I just thought being upfront about my—er— _this_ , would set you more at ease, not—”

“Oh, it’s fine. Perfectly fine. I’d been thinking this way since I sent in my complaint to the Ministry. The only thing you did was just further prove to me that—”

“Mr. Park,” Draco says, “Do you plan to have some of that Kimchi with your daughter on Wednesday?”

“What? I—” He involuntarily looks over at the pot on the hob’s back burner instead of the salted cabbage off to its right on the counter, then back at Draco. “I mean, that was _implied_ earlier, wasn’t it?”

“You said you were making her her favourite dish. But that doesn’t mean you’d eat it with her.”

“Malfoy, why wouldn’t he—”

“Yes, Potter. Why wouldn’t he share his daughter’s favourite meal?”

“I—I never said—” Mr. Park splutters.

Draco leans forward on the table. The tone he uses next is one he only uses with Mother. “Mr. Park, why are you sweating so severely?”

“I—I—” He wipes his forehead and cheeks with his robe sleeve, a flush rising to his cheeks.

Potter’s sharp eyes dart back and forth between Draco and Mr. Park. “Malfoy, I don’t understand.”

Draco sighs and takes a piece of parchment from his robes’ pockets. “In his statement to the Department, Mr. Park said he had been dining with his attacker at an Italian restaurant before the walk home where the vampire had tried shoving him into a dark alcove.”

Mr. Park stares at Draco, eyes wary. “I don’t think I know what you’re trying to imply.”

The two of them have a staring contest, and Draco breaks first. “The Kimchi paste. Garlic is a main component.”

Mr. Park looks down. “So?”

“So... why don’t you tell us why you’re sweating so much. Please. We’re here to help you and the vampire’s other victims. Withholding important information could hinder that.”

For a minute, Mr. Park’s hands clenched into fists on the table before they relaxed entirely. “We—we had a lot of garlic bread at the restaurant. When... When I was shoved into that alcove, I could... I could smell it on my d-date’s breath as those _teeth_ —” His hand clamps onto the back of his neck. “But it shouldn’t even _matter_ . I got out of there before the vampire could really _do_ anything! I should be able to make my daughter’s favourite dish without—without—” His other hand comes up to his mouth, and his teeth bite at his thumb.

Potter looks over at Draco, alarmed.

“A good lot of cases come to us with victims associating garlic with their attack. That’s likely because garlic is rumoured to be an effective deterrent of vampires—which particularly amoral vampires use to convince their targets that they _aren’t_ vampires, to ignore any other warning signs.” Draco’s voice sounds clinical to his ears, but any other tone would feel performative. “And smell tends to marry itself best with memories. Your reaction, Mr. Park, it’s not unheard of in your situation—even if you only consider your attack just a scare.”

Mr. Park wipes at his eyes. “Okay. Okay... and what is it that you needed from me?”

“Just a little more background on the attack and your attacker, if you would.”

They spend a half an hour more there while Mr. Park explains meeting his future date at a local bar, and, being a single, divorced parent, getting taken in by the person’s charm. Partway through, he takes the noodles off the stove and sets them aside for later but leaves the Kimchi-paste base still boiling away. He then goes on to tell Draco and Potter about how wonderful the date had been up to the point of the attack. While the vampire hadn’t gotten very far since a bystander had heard Mr. Park’s shouts and intervened, the attack followed the perp’s pattern of pinning the victim’s hands to a wall while going for the back of the neck.

Near the end of Mr. Park’s tale, Potter excuses himself to the front parlour.

Draco shields a grimace. With Potter’s sickly complexion, he couldn’t pick up any usual hints of Potter’s discomfort. Who really knows besides Potter how long he’s stuck it out, being reminded of his own horrible experience?

Quickly, Draco finishes up with Mr. Park by obtaining a sketch of the vampire, hardly looking at it before shoving it into his robes and trotting out after Potter.

Once outside, Draco looks at the darkening sky before glancing over at Potter who’s bundled up tight again. “I know you probably want to head home, but there’s one more stop I want to head to before you go.”

Potter just shrugs and follows Draco along as they weave their way back to Diagon Alley. “Are you really going to try to catch Mr. Dawkins at home today?”

Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Hardly. It’d be better luck catching him another day—which I will let you know about, should you want to tag along again.”

Potter doesn’t say anything to that, and Draco doesn’t turn around to check that he even heard.

Instead, Draco pushes open the shop door to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. It had opened just a month ago after being closed down since the start of the Wizarding War.

Draco glances back to see Potter standing on the threshold with a tilt to his head, door still open behind him. He gestures to Potter. “Well, come on, then. Order what you like.”

“Wha—Malfoy, I don’t understand.”

“It’s been a long day, Potter. Pretty draining for the both of us, and I know you can eat regular food since you're not fully 'Turned,' as they say. So if you don’t want any, I’m still ordering mine, and you can watch me eat it.”

With a shake of his head, Potter takes several hesitant steps into the shop, the door creaking closed behind him. “But, it’s the dead of _Winter_ —”

“Ah!! Customers!” Mr. Fortescue toddles out from the back, cheeks filling with delighted colour. “Not even this dreadful weather’s enough to chill your young hearts, eh?”

“Quite the opposite,” Draco says. “This place’ll warm us right up.”

Potter snorts, and Draco fights to keep his pleasant smile on his face.

“Oh, all right, all right.” Mr. Fortescue digs around in one of the ice buckets before popping back up with twin servings of ice cream. “For my wonderful customers, braving the cold, you can have my new mixture—Rainbow Swirl—on the house!”

“Oh, Mr. Fortescue, we couldn’t—” Potter starts.

“Simply brilliant, Mr. Fortescue! My associate and I thank you very much!” Draco grabs the two ice creams and a pair of spoons before Potter can stick his foot in the generous offer any further. He selects a table near the back.

Potter follows him over, slowly sitting in the seat across from Draco. “I still don’t get why you’re doing this.”

“I wanted some ice cream, Potter, just as anyone who’d spent their childhood begging by the window would. Stop overanalysing it, could you?” Draco takes a scoopful and shoves it in his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut. When he opens them a few seconds later, Potter still hasn’t touched his. “Like I said, it was a stressful day for both of us. Overwhelming at times. We both deserve a treat to unwind, all right?”

Carefully, Potter picks up his spoon and shoves some ice cream through his mouth slit.

While not an uncomfortable silence, the two of them finish off their ice cream in silence nonetheless.

 

***

Draco’s been thinking over a surprising offer he'd received at the beginning of the month for the last several days, and when he gets an owl from a different unlikely source, that only settles it. Still, his hand shakes a little as he writes the message; the words come out illegible, and he has to scrap it entirely. With a fortifying breath, he starts over, and his handwriting steadies:

 _An important matter has come up. To be quite frank, I’d like to handle this alone, since I’m certain it’d make you uncomfortable—we’ll likely be surrounded by people. But the truth is, I’m not certain I_ can _handle this situation myself as I’m sure to feel out of place. If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate it if you’d be willing to be uncomfortable together with me._

He scribbles a meeting place and time on the back and sends it off to Potter before he can regret it.

 

***

Potter meets him on Christmas Eve at the place designated on his missive. Just like before, he’s bundled from head to toe.

Draco also gives him a world of Gryffindor credit for meeting him after dark. As he approaches Potter, his hands sweat in his gloves despite the sharp chill in the air. Even now, uncertainty causes his steps to falter. “Potter, good to see you.” He flashes him a smile and hopes his nerves don’t show.

Potter rocks back on his feet, hands in his robe pockets. “Right. And you, Malfoy. So...”

“Right. So—” Draco holds out the crook of his arm to Potter. “Side-Along with me?”

For one heart-stopping second, Draco thinks Potter will refuse, and what will he do then? But then Potter’s hand moves until the tips of his gloved fingers latch onto the edges of Draco’s robe.

Draco’s breath leaves him—which is good because otherwise he might sob. And Potter’s not touching him, not really, but it’s close enough. “Hold tight and brace yourself, Potter.”

The pull of Disapparation is jarring, but Draco’s enough of a veteran that he doesn’t lose his lunch. Potter retches a little beside Draco as they Apparate onto marshy ground.

The second that they’re both steady, Potter lets go, and Draco tries not to feel the loss.

“What—” Potter looks around at their surroundings. “Wh-why would you bring me _here_?”

As they stand in the yard surrounded by tall marsh blades, the back door opens and light spills out onto the grass. A moment later a silhouette fills the doorway.

“Who’s out there?” Molly Weasley’s voice calls.

Potter takes a fumbling step back and turns to Draco, but he doesn’t say anything—evidently fearful Mrs. Weasley might overhear.

With respect to this, Draco keeps his voice low. “I said it’d be an uncomfortable situation that involves being around other people.”

“But you didn’t specify _this_ ,” Potter hisses.

“True. But you were fine agreeing without the specifics, knowing it’d be a situation out of your comfort zone.” Draco glances back toward the house where Mrs. Weasley is just starting to trek towards them. “There’s still time if you want to leave. She likely doesn’t know it’s you.”

Potter moves as though he plans to Disapparate, but he hesitates.

Draco holds his hand out to Potter, palm up. “That said, I’d appreciate it if you stayed. I honestly don’t know what I’d do here otherwise.”

By the angle of his head, Potter’s obviously staring at Draco’s held out hand and, just like First Year, doesn’t move to take it. But he doesn’t Disapparate away either. He straightens as Mrs. Weasley bears down upon them.

“Oh, Draco Malfoy, is it?”

Draco lets his hand drop. “Yes. Happy Christmas to you.”

“Oh, well, I—I know I sent an invitation, but I didn’t really _expect_ —”

“Invitation?” Potter’s voice holds all the skepticism of a man who doubts the colour of the sky.

“What? You thought I gate-crashed—”

“ _Harry!_ ” Mrs. Weasley swoops to embrace Potter.

With speed, Potter ducks away before she can put her arms around him and holds his hands up in a warding-off position.

Mrs. Weasley stops in her tracks, but when she speaks, her awe and delight haven’t faded. “Is that really you?”

Potter’s head moves in Draco’s direction then back again. He clears his throat and deliberately lowers his hands to his sides. “Yes.”

Bursting into tears, Mrs. Weasley gestures both Draco and Harry toward The Burrow, and she makes several aborted attempts to hug Potter along the way but remembers and pulls herself back each time.

Once inside, chaos erupts. Everyone—all the Weasleys and Potter’s two best friends—try to swarm him, however Mrs. Weasley plants herself between them and Potter. It’s tense; unspoken grievances linger in the air. But gradually, as conversation carries on, the tension fades.

Draco’s an observer to it all, ignored for the most part in favour of Potter—though he gets a hug from Mrs. Weasley, a handshake from Mr. Weasley, and a stilted nod from Potter’s ex-girlfriend, Ginny. The brief interaction he has with Granger and Ron Weasley is notably less icy than last time, though.

Granger walks up to him and, maintaining eye contact, says, “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Granger.” Draco looks to Weasley who gives a brief nod and flashes a close-lipped smile. “What, no overly-friendly greeting this time?”

“Well, I see you’re still getting over the last one. Not seen a Healer for it, then?” Weasley taps at his own eye that mirrors the one on Draco’s face with the nearly vanished bruise.

Draco shrugs. “Figured I’d keep it as a reminder not to make a right mess of it.”

Weasley narrows his eyes at that, seeming to analyse Draco.

Granger puts her hand on Draco’s arm, drawing his attention to her face. “I think,” she says, clearly choosing her words with care, “you’re handling it better than most.”

All three of them glance in Potter’s direction then, where he leans against the kitchen table. He’d removed a layer of cloaks and was in deep conversation with Mr. Weasley, only the slightest of tension remaining in his shoulders.

Draco startles when Weasley’s large hand claps onto his shoulder.

“Yeah. Not bad, Malfoy.” And those were the last words spoken between them that night. Granger and Weasley quietly move on after that, keeping their distance from Draco once the obligatory acknowledgement of existence was over.

For once, Draco is fine letting Potter be the center of attention, and not just because that was the entire reason for bringing Potter here. No, Draco’s more than fine being a wallflower because he gets to watch as Potter unwinds more than he has in days—likely weeks. As the night wears on, Potter loses more and more of his layered clothing, until he finally reveals his face to the people he considers family.

During the particular moment, Draco lingers in the doorway for as long as Potter might need him for emotional support. Not that Draco thinks Potter finds him particularly comforting, but rather a face to turn to who’s already seen his current state—a non-reaction when the others get overwhelming. The two lock eyes three times, before Draco decides to leave Potter and his friends with some privacy.

He stands in the empty kitchen downing shots of Firewhiskey while everyone else stays in the sitting room, finally breaching the forbidden topics simmering beneath the surface. At some point, voices start to raise above the sound of the Wireless playing, and Draco turns on the sink, rinsing out his glass seven times despite knowing he’ll soon refill it again.

By the time the kitchen door swings open, Draco’s lost count of how many shots he’s had.

Potter comes in alone, the bags under his eyes prominent in the bright lighting. As he walks closer to Draco, Draco hazily remembers how malnourished Potter had looked at the beginning of every school year and how that had paled in comparison to the gaunt lines in his face the first time Draco’d seen it post-vampire attack. But now, stuffed full of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and his friends’ unconditional love, Potter mostly looks tired.

He stops before Draco, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Why’d you do it? Why bring me here?”

And Draco’s suddenly not drunk enough for this conversation, but his luck’s run out alongside the Firewhiskey in his bottle. “’Whyyy’?”

“Yes, why, Malfoy? And don’t feed me any bullshit about doing your job because we both know this is way beyond what your job calls on you to do—unless you make these kind of holiday house calls with your other clients?”

Draco shrugs and stares into his empty shot glass.

Potter’s eyes narrow and his foot starts tapping. Even more annoying, the staccato beat isn't even set to the rhythm of the music coming from the sitting room.

“Oh, all right!” Draco bursts out. “T’was t’help you. And it really _is_ con-nect-ed t’the case.”

“How?”

Draco scuffs his shoe against the linoleum and closes his eyes. “Got a message ‘couple days ago. From th-the other one—the vi’tim we didn’t see—Mr. Daw-son. ‘e pulled out.”

“Of the case?” Potter’s words sound like they’re punched out of him.

Nodding, Draco opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on Potter’s right shoulder. “Yeah. Pulled ‘is test-a-mony too.”

“ _Why_?”

“Got scared—likely. ‘nd I get it—scary, goin’ ‘gainst someone who’s hurt you, someone who still could. Hap-pens sometimes. Figured th’news could use a pick-me-up—‘membered Ms. Wheeze-ley offered after Wheeze-el punched me, likely outta polite-ness.”

“But I know this isn’t your idea of a good time—and why bring me?”

Draco hesitates before his drunk brain makes a sudden decision. He reaches out to Potter, holding off long enough for Potter to pull away, before latching onto his robe sleeve. Then he tugs Potter along to the sitting room—which, to his surprise, is empty. Though, a glance at the clock on the wall explains the family's absence as it’s well into the early hours of Christmas Day. When the pair enter the room, the music coming from the Wireless becomes more audible, and Draco realises it's not even Christmas music playing.

_'I wouldn't know where to start_

_Sweet Music playing In the Dark-'_

Draco does his best to tune it out as he continues to pull Potter further into the room.

They stop just outside the viewing range of the mirror hanging on the wall, Potter halting their progress. “What’re you doing, Malfoy?”

“Jus’ come see, Pot-ter.”

Potter’s face pinches up. “Look, I don’t—”

“Think I fig-ured it out,” Draco says. Knowing he needs to be careful with his words here, he stuffs his free hand in his robe pocket, grasps his wand, and quickly whispers a sloppy Sobering Charm. It does the trick to take the edge off his haze. He blinks at Potter with clearer eyes. “Who—or rather, the _type_ —of person the vampire went after.”

“Don’t think you can distract me by changing the subje—”

“I’m not.” He holds his gaze steady on Potter’s closed-off one. “The vampire went after people it thought it could get away with biting, those that were isolated. Ms. Adams? Someone who’d go to work, then head off to a Muggle bar by herself. Mr. Park—a single father whose only child is off at school most of the year. And Mr. Dawson, a likely recluse. So the question, Potter, was why you were alone—enough for the vampire to think it could have a go at The Boy Who Lived without much repercussion.”

Potter’s eyes take on a shifty light as he breaks eye contact to stare at a point beside Draco’s head.

Draco sighs. “It’s none of my business what caused the rift between you and your friends, just that being bitten made it worse. And, thing is, just as isolation may have helped in choosing targets, it was also meant to silence them. But—do you feel alone now, Potter?”

Closing his eyes, Potter takes a moment to consider. “No,” he breathes. “Or not as much. I—meeting Ms. Adams and Mr. Park... that helped, I think. All of us. Feel less alone in this. And—and being here...” His lips turn upward as he opens his eyes to look around the room and then stops them on Draco. “You came here for me?”

Instead of answering, Draco tugs again lightly on Potter’s sleeve. “Hold onto that—what you’re feeling right now. And come here. Please.”

Potter’s lips press tight together as he searches Draco’s face—likely for traces of the schoolyard bully who tormented him not that long ago. Then he allows Draco to pull him right in front of the mirror.

“Been working for this Department for a fair amount of time. While I may still need to smooth out how I handle clients—” Draco says while Potter draws in a sharp breath “—that doesn’t mean I’m not a professional in my field.”

Draco lets go and takes a step back from Potter while they both take in his reflection.

It’s faded and hazy around the edges in comparison to Draco’s sharply focused one peering over Potter’s shoulder, but it’s there. From the bright green eyes to the jagged lightning scar, the unkempt black hair to the round glasses, it’s Potter. Even with the grey-tinged skin and hollowed cheeks—softened by the lighting and the evening among friends—it’s Potter.

“Our understanding of vampires and vampire attacks—and what was considered the Old, Indisputable Knowledge on the subject—continues to evolve the longer our Department works on these cases. All it really took was looking at a different angle,” Draco says as Potter’s finger-tips touch the glass over his reflection’s chest. “Still you there, Potter. Still you.”

As Potter continues to stare at his reflection, mouth slightly open, Draco’s gaze shifts to his mirror counterpart. His heart rolls over in his chest when he catches the soft, fond look reflected in his eyes. He tears his eyes away from the mirror and turns away, hoping Potter was too caught up to notice.

 

***

A few weeks later, Draco feels he could fly without a broom.

His Department may have actually caught the vampire. They just need to bring in the victims to identify their attacker in a line-up. So, those still involved are called in later that same day.

Mr. Park and Ms. Adams easily greet Potter when they see him, and Potter makes small talk back. While the three of them wait in the corridor of the observation room as the line-up is prepped, Mr. Park and Ms. Adams introduce themselves to one another, and Potter twiddles his thumbs. He’s foregone his head-wrappings today, much to Draco’s pleasant surprise. Once or twice. he catches Potter’s eye, and, not quite knowing what else to do, nods slightly and gives a half-smile.

On the one hand, Draco is thrilled at the prospect of Potter—and the other victims—finally getting some closure. However, on the other, more selfish hand, Draco is disappointed that his excuse to see Potter every so often is coming to an end. He brings the first to the forefront of his mind and shoves the other one down deep.

Ms. Adams is called in first, having provided the most vivid description of the captured suspect. The bartender she had been flirting with for several weeks had inexplicably quit his job after the incident—a fact that could be explained away with the traumatic nature of running into a vampire, except that the same man had been seen bar-tending for Wizarding pubs and not just Muggle ones—making him a wizard (or Squib). It was her tip about the Muggle bar that led to his capture and arrest by the Auror Department. In all likelihood, the Department of Creature Incidents would be up to its neck in other victims well before the Aurors would think to check Muggle pubs for the suspect. So Draco’s Department feels like it owes her this much, to be the first one to lay eyes on him from behind magically reinforced, one-way glass.

Draco stands beside her, one of his supervisors on her other side, as she steps up to the window and peers into the adjacent room.

She gasps and points at the gentleman second to last on the right—a tall fellow, muscular in build, with a certain sharpness about his features. “Him. That one.”

“All right,” Draco says at the same time one of the Aurors in the room says, “You sure?” Draco sends the man a withering glare.

“Yes, I’m certain,” Ms. Adams declares with her back straight and her chin jutting out.

“Okay, this way, Miss.” Draco’s supervisor shepherds Ms. Adams to the door opposite the one she came in, signaling to the other Auror in the room to bring in the next person from the corridor.

Mr. Park hesitates in the doorway when he’s ushered inside and keeps his eyes cast down as he shuffles over to Draco. When it seems apparent Mr. Park is having trouble finding the courage to lift his head and view the line-up, Draco pats his arm reassuringly.

Fortified by Draco’s support, Mr. Park glances up and then away again. He puts his back to the one-way window, folding his arms across his chest. “Second to last one on the far right.”

Draco breathes out in a huff. Excitement thrills through him—looks like they have the perp. But they still have one more victim to get to before they can close this bit out.

When Potter walks through the door, his face is set in a mask of indifference that looks foreign on his features. He steps right beside Draco, hands shoved in his robe pockets. There’s a pause that continues to stretch out when Potter looks beyond the glass to the other room.

“Well?” Draco prompts.

“It’s not—none of them are—”

Draco’s heart sinks into his stomach.

“My vampire’s not here.”

He can’t handle hearing that much controlled despair in Potter’s voice. “Maybe—maybe he is. Remember when we suggested Polyjuice? That might be viable... Do you want to stay for the round of questioning from the Aurors so you know? Maybe there’ll be something recognisable.”

Potter glances at Draco, eyes giving away nothing, but his anxious lip nibbling certainly does. “If you think it’ll lead us somewhere...”

The two of them watch as the Aurors clear out the line-up except for the gentleman second to last on the far-right end. A table and set of chairs is summoned from the ground below and suddenly the line-up room becomes transformed into an interrogation room. Magical manacles identical to the ones used in Wizengamot hearings latch onto the suspect and pin him to his chair.

The suspect stares at the chains wrapped around him, bewilderment crossing his features. “Why, what in Merlin’s name is going on, Aurors?” His voice is surprisingly soft coming from a man who looks like he could bench-press a troll. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that someone identified _me_ —”

“With all due respect, Mr. Hendricks, we’ll be conducting the questions here,” one of the Aurors says.

“They’re up there, aren’t they?” Mr. Hendricks lifts his blue eyes to the one-way glass. “The person who ‘identified’ me?”

Potter crosses his arms as he seems to take the stare as a challenge, even if the other man can’t see them.

“I’m not a monster who attacked all those people. You’re all wasting your time here with me when the real one’s still out there—I mean, I don’t even _look_ like a vampire!” He turns a charming, normal smile on one of the Aurors. “Surely you can see that, sir.” Then he places his gaze back on the window as if pleading with those on the other side to see the absurdity as well.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Draco mutters under his breath. Especially in the magical world.

The Auror that had spoken to Mr. Hendricks before takes out his wand and waves it about, changing the lighting in the room. The effect is not quite what Muggles refer to as Blacklight, but a similar, surrealistic quality befalls the people in the room.

One of the Aurors’ hair changes from black to a salt and pepper grey while another Auror has age lines crossing her face where before it was smooth. The Auror who cast the spell loses an inch of height and ragged patches in his red Auror robe suddenly stick out in sharp relief.

Meanwhile, Draco and Potter watch as Mr. Hendricks’ skin develops a sickly grey quality, his facial features sharpen more, and his blue eyes shift to a burning scarlet. With Mr. Hendricks still staring intensely at him and Potter, Draco feels relieved that the other two victims aren’t in here as even _his_ heart jack-rabbits in his chest.

“Yes, I’d say those chains are quite necessary,” Salt n’ Pepper Auror says.

Finally, Mr. Hendricks moves his gaze from the one-way glass to the old Auror. “My, what happened to you?” Then he blinks at hearing the rough quality in his own voice. He glances down at himself and must see the change in his hands which grip the chair arms they’re chained to—their off-colour tone and long, claw-like nails. “Ah.”

The aging Auror plops two moving pictures on the tabletop—one of Ms. Adams and one of Mr. Park, both before being bitten. “Recognise these folks?”

“Are you implying they sure as hell recognised me?” The new wolfish smile he flashes at the Auror shows off the largest and sharpest incisor Draco has seen in a year. It certainly makes Ms. Adams and Potter’s fangs look like mere baby teeth.

To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch. “They were definitely attacked by a vampire that fits your profile quite well. Part-time bartender, facial features that match our sketches, initial charm of a Venus flytrap. Deny it all you want, but we see the red of your irises—you’ve attacked _somebody_.”

“Convenient, isn’t it? Having an obvious physical marker of guilt. Most evil doesn’t even show on a person until they are in the act of committing it, and, after, it submerges itself again.”

“Like the way you target and charm your victims?”

Mr. Hendricks sighs and rolls his eyes. “If you’re asking me if I attacked those two, my answer is I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? I’d imagine it would be quite the vivid occasion.”

“Madam, do you remember every meal you’ve ever had? Or rather, what you even ate last week?”

Her hand slaps the table. “These are _people_ , damn it!”

Draco thinks back to Ms. Adams and Mr. Park’s testimonies, to their obvious fear at seeing their attacker even with a barrier separating them, and he seethes.

As Mr. Hendricks gives his lips an unimpressed lick, the Auror maintaining the atmospheric spell says, “How about you walk us through one of your—incidents.”

The vampire tilts his head, considering. Then he gives them that same charming look from earlier, only now the fangs twist it into something sinister. “All right. I’d be up for it.”

Sudden concern lances through Draco. “Potter—”

“I’m staying.”

Draco flashes Potter a pained grimace. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Most of ‘em tend to be loner-types. Lonely enough that they latch onto me. And what can I say? I have quite the comforting presence. So really, they pick me, you know.”

“We’re well aware of your habits of choice. Get on with the—”

“Oh, you want to jump right to it, then? Bit boring, but all right.” He runs his tongue along his front teeth. “What’s it like—that’s what you’re asking, right?”

Draco can’t place the glazed look that enters Mr. Hendricks’ eyes; he only knows that it unsettles him.

“Well, it’s a bit like this—you’re walking along with someone you think you know, feel you trust. Maybe along the street, in an empty building, or down the hall to your own flat. One moment they’re beside you and the next they’re not.” By the faster rising and falling of his chest, Mr. Hendricks’ breathing seems to quicken. “No, they’re behind you, shoving you against the nearest wall. Next thing you know, her hands are pinning yours above your head, her breath and teeth at the back of your neck. And she whispers and dares you to call out—for anyone. Anyone to-to—”

He struggles against the chains pinning him down for the first time and his right arm breaks free; the Aurors jump back and train their wands on him as his hand rakes desperate claw-marks down the table’s surface, knocking one of the photos onto the floor. “—to help me. Help me. Please, why won’t anyone _help me_?” Tears score their own marks down his face, some slipping into his mouth from his pained grimace.

Draco tears his eyes away from the display only when he hears a choked noise beside him. He just catches sight of the edge of Potter’s cloak as it slips through the door. Glancing back at the interrogation room reveals the Aurors trying to placate Mr. Hendricks while he blinks around at them in confusion, the glazed look in his eyes growing dimmer.

Then Draco is racing out of the observation room after Potter. He pauses as he enters the empty stretch of hallway. Looking left and right, no sign of Potter appears; Draco hopes that he hasn’t Apparated home by himself. Pausing and trying to still his fast-beating heart, he takes the time to listen. He notes the scuffling noises coming from behind the door to the right, the one that leads to the interrogation room. Beyond that, he doesn’t hear much.

He’s just about to Disapparate to Grimmauld when he catches it, the slightest sound of robes rustling on stone. Draco may be wrong, but it’s better than going off of nothing at all. Racing down the corridor to the right of him, he stops by the closed door at the end, all other ones along the way being open to darkened rooms.

The door’s unlocked when Draco twists the knob, and when he steps inside, he finds Potter pacing like a caged beast, hands twisting in his hair. Noises that sound like words come from Potter, but they’re said too indistinctly for Draco to understand.

With caution, Draco says, “Potter?”

Potter whips around so fast, he nearly trips over his own feet. The look in his eyes is wild.

“Potter,” Draco says again, this time with his hands placed in front of himself in a placating gesture.

“What?” He snarls.

“Potter.”

He turns away from Draco, then, arms wrapped around his middle. “You saw him in there. That monster—that man...”

Draco wants to say something, but he’s not entirely sure what about the situation set Potter off—what he could say to make him feel better. So for once in his life, he bites his tongue, and lets Potter talk.

“You know, right? Just listening to him...” Potter leans against one of the walls and sinks down to the floor. “My vampire—I never told you, maybe because I was ashamed, maybe because you wouldn’t believe me, I don’t know. My vampire was a woman too.”

And—and that makes sense to Draco. Of course, Potter’s date would have been a woman; somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have known, for it to not shock him now, for him to not have asked about it up until now. His hands slide into his robe pockets, and he tries to pass off as neutral an expression as he can for Potter.

“And I—I think,” Potter says slowly, his face twisting—as though he’s tasting the words in his mouth and finding them bitter, “I think we may be bite-mates, me and him. I mean, I don’t know enough about vampire attacks like you do, but you seemed to think it odd enough that a vampire would do that—attack from behind and without hypnosis. Not many fit that description. And—and he was... calling—calling for—"  

Potter stands up, turning his back on Draco, and lets out a hollow laugh. “Merlin, it’s so funny, isn’t it?" Abruptly, he swivels around to face Draco again, one hand covering his mouth. "All this—this entire time, we’ve been tracking—he’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing again. “God, there’s something wrong with me. I mean, truly—and you’d know, too, wouldn’t you, Malfoy? You’ve always liked to point out the things that’re wrong with me. So, you must’ve noticed.”

Draco’s not prepared for the look Potter levels at him then; even if he had anything to say in response, that look reached out to Draco and squeezed his throat tight.

“Come on—gonna make me say it, huh? Okay—okay, fine. All of them—every one of them—they—they’ve _felt_ something! About this, their attack. They’ve cried just mentioning it. Me? Merlin. You’d think I’m agitated about it, upset about it—you’d think it’d eat at me. But I’ve just felt... nothing. I’m not—I’m not even _sad_. I’ve not cried once this whole time, not even during the attack,” Potter says while he sounds like he may very well cry right now. “I don’t even know if I can, anymore. I just feel—hollow. Empty. Dried up. And you saw all of them, right? This isn’t normal. Even—even that vampire that bit Ms. Adams and Mr. Park and that other victim that was too _distraught_ to even be a part of all this— _he_ cried. And he’s—he’s his own monster now and still...he—” Potter’s baleful eyes search Draco’s face. “What does that make me?”

“I—” Draco rubs a hand across his mouth. _Oh, Merlin’s beard._ “I mean, you were—you were distraught in your own way, though...” His brow scrunches while his mind flips through the memories of the past couple weeks. “You were great talking with the other victims _because_ you understood their pain, Potter. And—and you left the room because you got overwhelmed, didn’t you? Now, and back then, too—at the victims’ homes.”

Potter chuckles darkly and leans back against the wall. “You’d think. That’s what I thought too. But when I was alone after walking out, thinking I needed to collect myself... I just didn’t—need to. I thought the tears wanted to come then, but even after hearing their stories, their experiences, they still didn’t. And, Merlin, I remember standing in Ms. Adams’ loo with dry eyes and an empty reflection wondering if my compassion had dried up.” His gaze turns to the ceiling. “What if that vampire sucked more out of me than just my blood?”

“Potter.” Draco takes a step forward, his mind scrambling to fit all these new pieces into the puzzle that appeared when he first interacted with Potter in that attic. “Potter, take my hand.”

Potter’s eyes snap from the ceiling to Draco’s face, his mouth going slack. “What?”

Reaching out his right arm, Draco repeats, “Take my hand, Potter.”

His gaze flicks from Draco’s face to Draco’s upturned palm and back again.

Neither of them move, and Draco releases a frustrated breath. “This entire time, I thought you were afraid to touch—to be around other people, around _me_ —because you were subconsciously afraid that we could— _would_ hurt you too. But now—”

Now Potter’s facial expression is becoming shuttered, and Draco can’t have that. He needs to switch tack. He needs—They’ve never been real gentle with one another, have they?

Taking a leap of Gryffindor faith in his Slytherin instincts, Draco shutters his own expression to mirror Potter’s, and he juts his chin out haughtily. “You’ve been worried you’d attack someone, haven’t you?”

Potter’s silence is answer enough.

“Well, quite arrogant of you, don’t you think, Potter? You really think you could take me on?” He looks him up and down with the best contemptuous gaze he can muster. “Really?”

Potter’s eyes flash at the challenge, and they’re not kids anymore, but Draco can still get under his skin—and a sick part of him is so _happy_ about that.

Fixing a sneer onto his face, he says, “Well, I’m right here, Potter. You’re welcome to try it.”

Molten lava moves through Draco’s veins and burns him from the inside out at the sensation of Potter’s hand wrapping around his wrist. Eyes probably fever-bright, Draco can’t help but to egg him on. “Come on, Potter. You’re going to have to try harder than that. I can have my wand in my other hand and you Petrified in a second.”

Potter grabs hold of his other wrist. Then they stand there for an undetermined amount of time, just staring at their linked limbs. And Potter’s still so far away.

“Well,” Draco finally says. “This is the most boring fight I’ve ever had with you. Don’t tell me you’ve turned _dull_.”

Besides all the inaction, Potter’s hold is so light that Draco could pull away easily should he want to.

“Malfoy.” There’s that Potter glare Draco simultaneously hates and has missed.

“I know, Potter—let’s make things a little more interesting, shall we?” Draco raises his brows; upping the ante to the degree he wants to could get dangerous, but he has a point to make, damn it. “Here, now—don’t let go.”

Potter doesn’t let go, though there is uncertainty in his step as he follows Draco—who’s walking slowly backwards.

Draco stops when his back brushes against a wall, and he stares defiantly into Potter’s brilliant green eyes. “All right... You willing to be a little uncomfortable with me, Potter?”

“Depends. What do you mean by that?”

“Step closer to me.”

Concern flashes in Potter’s eyes. “Malfoy—”

“Scared, Potter?” Draco tilts his head back, and Potter’s eyes trace the curve of his neck. “I’m not.”

Then Potter’s standing right there, a hair’s breadth away from Draco. Their chests brush when they breathe, and Draco can _smell_ him. One of Potter’s hands remains wrapped around Draco’s wrist, holding it down by their sides.

“Malfoy—” Potter’s voice is rough and loud in the space between them. “What do you want?”

“Come now, Potter. You know the question here is really what _you_ want.” He tilts his head further, maintaining eye contact. “You want to bite me, don’t you, Potter?”

“I—” Potter’s voice is strangled.

“Back in the alley by Knockturn. At the Weasleys. When we first met in your attic, even. Right?”

Potter’s Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows.

“Well.” Draco wets his lips. “Bite me.”

“ _Malfoy_.” The word hisses past Potter’s lips as he leans his face into the crook of Draco’s neck.

“That’s it. That’s it, Potter,” Draco babbles when Potter’s nose brushes against his jugular. “ _Bite me_.”

When Potter exhales against Draco’s throat, an involuntary shudder wracks through Draco. “I—"

“Go on. Bite me like you want to.”

Potter breathes in deep and shakes against Draco. His free hand fists the front of Draco’s robes. “I don’t—I don’t want to.”

“What was that, Potter?”

A sob chokes out from Potter. “I don’t want to bite you.”

“Say it again.”

 _“I don’t want to bite you_.”

And Draco can feel a wetness against his neck, though he’s certain it’s not blood. He lifts his free hand and lays it gently against Potter’s shuddering back. “I know. And now you do too.”

“But _how_ —I could’ve—You’d—”

“I’m a Slytherin. And a coward. Do you really think that if there was any doubt in my mind you wouldn’t bite me, I’d let you this close? That I’d _bare my neck_ for you? No.”

“But we’ve always hurt each other. Why wouldn’t I—?”

Draco laughs as he stares up at the drywall ceiling and ignores the wet tracks running down his face and his neck. “It’s _because_ we’ve hurt each other before that I knew. I’ve seen the worst of you, Harry—dragged it out of you, even. Just as you’ve seen the worst from me. And I know you’ll punch, kick, insult, hex a person—but you’d never choose to do something like _that_.”

Pulling back from him, Potter scans his eyes across Draco’s face. Merlin, Draco knows he gets terribly blotchy when he cries.

He swallows as Potter makes eye contact. “You didn’t have control over what happened to you, but you control what happens next, Potter. So, who do you consent to becoming?”

Potter looks down and notices his hand still bunched in the fabric of Draco’s robes. A sheepish look steals across his face, and he smooths the hand out but doesn’t remove it. The hand settles against Draco’s chest, over his heart. “I don’t—I don’t know. Certainly not like—not like Mr. Hendricks.”

Draco’s breath quickens in a hopefully unnoticeable way as Potter’s thumb starts to massage back and forth while he thinks.

“I think—I think I want to become me again.”

“But you are you.” And Draco sounds too breathless, and Potter will _know_.

Potter’s gaze flicks back to Draco’s face, and his look becomes calculating. “I can feel your heartbeat, you know.”

Draco’s brain short-circuits as icy dread floods his veins. Potter knows. Potter _knows_ —or at least _suspects_. And in his panic, Draco sees in the back of his mind the look on Theo Nott’s face in Fifth Year, _feels_ the way he pulls away from Draco. Except—except Potter’s not pulling away, so maybe he doesn’t think like Theo _thought_ —

Potter’s arms wrap around Draco, and his breath tickles Draco’s ear as he whispers, “Breathe, Malfoy.”

The breath Draco sucks in then is sharp and wet, and, Merlin’s _pants_ , he must be crying again.

“Shhh.” Potter runs a hand down Draco’s back and slides the other into his hair. “It’s okay. It’s all right, Malfoy.”

But it’s not—how can it be when Potter’s hands feel so _nice_ on his back and like heaven in his hair, and Potter _knows_.

“Potter—” His voice sounds _ruined_.

Potter pulls back but not entirely away from Draco, and his face isn’t closed off or twisting in disgust or— “Malfoy, I’d like to kiss you.”

And that’s definitely not like Theo at all, and Draco feels so lightheaded that he can’t think straight—not that he ever really has—not with Potter looking at him with his burning eyes. Draco decides if Potter really did bite him and that this is some hallucinatory fever dream before death, he’ll take it. “Oh?" His voice comes out thin and shaky, but he presses on. "You’d prefer that over biting, then?”

A pink tongue swipes the seam along Potter’s lips. “You know, I may have been thirsty in a different way.”

Hysterical laughter escapes Draco. “That’s the line you go with?”

“Hmm... And what would your line be?” He whispers as he leans in. “Draco?”

Something snaps in Draco then—likely his restraint—and his head lunges forward. A whine tears through his throat as his lips crash against Harry’s.

Their desperation turns the kiss messy. All their angles are off, and Draco cuts his lips against Harry’s fangs more than once. Hands fly from gripping at hips and tearing at backs to tangling in hair and back again in seconds. It’s needy and rushed and very much the best kiss of Draco’s life. Not that he has many to compare it to.

When they finally pull back from one another, Potter’s hand is still buried in Draco’s hair, and Draco’s hand has found a way inside Potter’s robes to rub his back. Both pant heavily in the space between.

“Well, thank you for the kiss, Malfoy.”

“Hopefully satisfied your _thirst_ a tad.”

“Er—Only just a little, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear. What a shame. We’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”

Flashing Draco a smirk, Potter leans in again.

Draco leans in to meet him halfway when a sensation under his hand causes him to stop. “Potter—”

“Hmm?”

“Potter—” Draco flattens his hand and waits to feel it once more to be sure. “Harry, I think I feel your heartbeat.”

“My heartbeat? Why wouldn’t you—” Understanding enters Potter’s eyes and floods his face full of hope. “Y-you do?”

“Yes.” The beat is slow and too small to be normal for a human, but it’s there. A smile spreads across Draco’s face as he runs the back of his free hand down Potter’s cheek. “Probably for the best. You make a terrible vampire.”

**Author's Note:**

> I always wanted to explore the tragic and somewhat hopeless nature that underpins most vampire fiction and see if I could turn it on its head. That mindset birthed the concept of exploring Post-Trauma with the lens of choice--rather, like Draco says, "Who do you consent to becoming?" after tragedy. With vampire fic and trauma, there tends to be a stripping of agency. By applying the lens of consent, I hoped to show a reclaiming of that agency.
> 
> Additionally, this fic explores consent through the respecting of boundaries, physical and psychological, and when boundaries are stretched, consent to do so is asked beforehand or further clarified. Particularly, the stretching of boundaries is explored in the theme of "consenting to discomfort" or rather, a willingness to push oneself beyond what they're used to in an attempt to grow--but never so far as to be harmful to oneself--tying into shaping oneself beyond trauma.
> 
> The mirror scene (with "Almost" by Hozier playing in the background) was a little homage to the line in _Undertale_ : “Despite everything, it’s still you.” Which was the initial inspiration for how I would interpret a vampire fic, should I ever end up writing one.


End file.
